bridle. The animal did not run off, merely stood. A feed bag was on the saddle which lay in the snow near Prokopiev’s feet and he took the bag, slashed it open with a Chinese bayonet, then set it on the ground where the animal could bend to it easily. With the saddle blanket, he rubbed the animal down of its sweat. He was not a horseman, but realized that leaving the animal lathered in the freezing temperatures would not be good.
Having done all he could, he clapped the animal on the neck and strode down along the defile toward the valley entrance. Little remained of his uniform, little visible anyway beneath the Mongol outer garments he wore to keep warm. But these were his men, his Elite Corps. They would know him.
He cast aside the inferior bayonet. There were finely made Soviet knives available to officers of his rank and it would be easy enough to get hold of one, have the knife dispatched to him from the stores of such things held in reserve for the Elite Corps.
Prokopiev began to mentally review what he would tell the Comrade Colonel, who commanded the Armies of the Soviet now since the murder— Prokopiev stopped, the access hatches of one of the armored personnel carriers opening. He assumed he was recognized. John Rourke was not a murderer. Of course, the traitorous Major Tiemerovna, once wife of the Hero Marshal— She was the one who had murdered the Hero Marshal.
Prokopiev commenced again to walk.
It seemed as though there were two versions of the
truth, the one he had been told, the one he realized with his own senses. It was hard to imagine, for example, that Doctor Rourke, the father of Michael Rourke, would have criminally conspired with any woman to murder her husband.
Vassily Prokopiev realized that there was some error. After all, Comrade Colonel Antonovitch had not actually witnessed the slaying of the Hero Marshal. There was devious work afoot. Perhaps a conspiracy among those who had witnessed the Hero Marshal’s death. It was impossible to imagine Doctor Rourke and this female Major, who was waiting in ambush for the Hero Marshal, giving him no chance to defend himself, murdering him when he surrendered for the sake of his men, then murdering his men as well.
The Comrade Colonel must be alerted to these discrepancies. Perhaps the entire new offensive was based on misinformation. The man Han Lu Chen by any standard was brave. The man Paul Rubenstein, a Jew, was heroic beyond measure. And, since he had first begun to learn, he had been told that Jews were at times capable of singular intellectual achievement but were a cowardly race, now exterminated. How then, unless the man Rubenstein was a racial anomoly, was this possible?
And would a man such as Doctor Rourke or Michael Rourke allow a daughter or sister to marry someone who was all but subhuman? Certainly not. Had other Jews been like Paul Rubenstein? And if they were, then why had he been taught what he had been taught?
No one would call out that he should halt, so Prokopiev halted of his own accord before the men guarding the valley entrance opened fire, as they would be under orders to do. “Comrades—it is Major Prokopiev! Do not shoot!”
He walked toward them with his hands outstretched, palms open.
This was a withdrawal, obviously. Because the Second Chinese City essentially no longer existed? Or had the plans for the offensive changed. “How goes the offensive, Comrades?”
If they told him what they thought was true, would it be true?
Chapter Seven
It was impossible to communicate with them effectively because they had no command of the language. He was able, by sheer force of concentration only, to make something from their words, searching for every possible similarity between their language and his, however remote or unlikely.
Bjorn Rolvaag sat up in bed and collected his thoughts while they merely watched him. Michael Rourke, Annie’s brother, and the German woman, Doctor Maria Leuden, who was an archaeologist,
Having done all he could, he clapped the animal on the neck and strode down along the defile toward the valley entrance. Little remained of his uniform, little visible anyway beneath the Mongol outer garments he wore to keep warm. But these were his men, his Elite Corps. They would know him.
He cast aside the inferior bayonet. There were finely made Soviet knives available to officers of his rank and it would be easy enough to get hold of one, have the knife dispatched to him from the stores of such things held in reserve for the Elite Corps.
Prokopiev began to mentally review what he would tell the Comrade Colonel, who commanded the Armies of the Soviet now since the murder— Prokopiev stopped, the access hatches of one of the armored personnel carriers opening. He assumed he was recognized. John Rourke was not a murderer. Of course, the traitorous Major Tiemerovna, once wife of the Hero Marshal— She was the one who had murdered the Hero Marshal.
Prokopiev commenced again to walk.
It seemed as though there were two versions of the
truth, the one he had been told, the one he realized with his own senses. It was hard to imagine, for example, that Doctor Rourke, the father of Michael Rourke, would have criminally conspired with any woman to murder her husband.
Vassily Prokopiev realized that there was some error. After all, Comrade Colonel Antonovitch had not actually witnessed the slaying of the Hero Marshal. There was devious work afoot. Perhaps a conspiracy among those who had witnessed the Hero Marshal’s death. It was impossible to imagine Doctor Rourke and this female Major, who was waiting in ambush for the Hero Marshal, giving him no chance to defend himself, murdering him when he surrendered for the sake of his men, then murdering his men as well.
The Comrade Colonel must be alerted to these discrepancies. Perhaps the entire new offensive was based on misinformation. The man Han Lu Chen by any standard was brave. The man Paul Rubenstein, a Jew, was heroic beyond measure. And, since he had first begun to learn, he had been told that Jews were at times capable of singular intellectual achievement but were a cowardly race, now exterminated. How then, unless the man Rubenstein was a racial anomoly, was this possible?
And would a man such as Doctor Rourke or Michael Rourke allow a daughter or sister to marry someone who was all but subhuman? Certainly not. Had other Jews been like Paul Rubenstein? And if they were, then why had he been taught what he had been taught?
No one would call out that he should halt, so Prokopiev halted of his own accord before the men guarding the valley entrance opened fire, as they would be under orders to do. “Comrades—it is Major Prokopiev! Do not shoot!”
He walked toward them with his hands outstretched, palms open.
This was a withdrawal, obviously. Because the Second Chinese City essentially no longer existed? Or had the plans for the offensive changed. “How goes the offensive, Comrades?”
If they told him what they thought was true, would it be true?
Chapter Seven
It was impossible to communicate with them effectively because they had no command of the language. He was able, by sheer force of concentration only, to make something from their words, searching for every possible similarity between their language and his, however remote or unlikely.
Bjorn Rolvaag sat up in bed and collected his thoughts while they merely watched him. Michael Rourke, Annie’s brother, and the German woman, Doctor Maria Leuden, who was an archaeologist,
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